2038
by sjoon
Summary: Connor Moore hadn't become the youngest lieutenant in the DPD by neglecting his work. He had made lieutenant by working hard and by being in the right place at the right time. That was his thing, being in the right place. Seems the universe decided this time was not what he expected at all; Now, he's the middle of an android revolution with a deviant prototype by his side.
1. FILE 001 The Hostage

_09.06.2038 AM 10:33:42_

"RK800."

A voice filters through the bright light of the lab, his code feels jumbled—nothing quite matching up to how it should work for a nanosecond, before the world fizzles into focus. The voice comes again; unfamiliar, but he's just been born, so to speak. Not much could be familiar just yet.

"Register your name;  
Hank."

"My name is Hank." His voice is flat, emotionless save for the wisps of gruff cadence built into his modules. His systems are working at a speed which the human technicians at the console can't keep up with, code refreshing with new information as he scans each human in the room—birthdays, occupations, criminal record…

"State your serial number and function, please."

"313 248 317 dash 52. My function is to locate and apprehend androids exhibiting deviant behaviors and return them to cyberlife tower for analysis." A pause, as he delves deeper into his system files for a primary objective. "Currently awaiting instructions."

"I think he's good to go." The voice says; it belongs to a researcher, a blond man with tired eyes and creases on either side of his mouth from smiling—but he wasn't smiling, now. Blue eyes scan his form, cataloging data and

**Daniel Taylor**  
**Born: 02.11.1993 / Cyberlife Research Analyst (Project: [REDACTED])**  
**Criminal Record: speeding ticket, pardoned.**

Hank presses for more information, the panel at the very corner of his vision expanding as he stretched his investigative muscles.

**Project: RK prototype line, started to explore more unique androids by Chloe Kauffman, the founder of Cyberlife. Hank is the latest addition to the line, and the first to be produced in a quantity larger than one; he also had a more specific purpose than any of his predecessors.**  
**Speeding Ticket, pardoned: originally logged into the DPD system but never pursued as it was noted that he was speeding to get his pregnant wife to the hospital so she could give birth to their daughter, Emma. The officer, who was not named in the file, had escorted them the rest of the way.**

"RK800, enter stasis, please."

With a nod, he does—waiting to be woken up for his first real-life field test.

_09.15.2038 PM 8:29:06_

**Primary objective: De-escalate situation on the roof**  
**Related objective: Talk to Captain Allen**

The elevator ride was long, not to say that wasn't expected—but it left a lot of time to process very little information. Hank had already sorted through the composition of the metal alloys the car was fitted with, the exact voltage of the buttons and the possibility of failure in the older control system. None of this information was important or particularly pertinent to his current task. Perhaps was a waste of processing power.

Producing an elastic band from around his wrist, he ties up the long, greyish hair he'd been designed with; it was impractical, not terribly attractive, and would likely get in his way more than aid him in his function. Then again, perhaps the point of his design was to keep humans from being too distracted by him, and the length and cut was versatile enough to cover his LED in a range of scenarios where it might benefit him to pass as human.

He's moved on to flicking a half-dollar between his fingers; the movement calibrating his fine motor skills, something which he will most likely not have to use in this negotiation—but the probability is sitting at a solid 14% from the information he has gathered thus far.

The elevator doors open to the front hall of the trashed apartment; seemingly nothing was spared, the ground littered with shards of glass and well-filtered water from the inlaid glass fish tanks. A noise from the floor catches the edge of his processors, a glint of golden movement in accompaniment. He understands that he should follow his prime directive exclusively, but his programming is made to learn—designed for curiosity and he can't stop himself before he's kneeling before the thing.

Gingerly, he takes the fish in his hands—it's still moving, drowning in air and struggling to cling to life;

**Azure Damsel. C̢hr͟y͢s̶i̧pt͡e҉ŗa h̷e̴mìcy̸a͏n̡ea.**

What a funny name for a fish, he thinks, as he sets it back into the water of the shattered tank. More noise and movement behind him—his proximity sensors displaying two forms coming in his direction.

Hank rises, hands folded, attention returned to his primary objective as an officer in full riot gear escorts a distraught woman—she's shaking and crying; mascara staining her cheeks. She grabs him by the arm, and her fleeting expression of relief shows through to her voice;

"Oh, thank god—please, p-please save my son…" But even clouded with tears, her eyes come upon the circle of blue at his temple, the name and model number emblazoned on his suit jacket. "Wait…" Micro-expressions become expressions, and she flits through fear, anger, disgust. Hank knows what these things mean, in his head—but he doesn't understand them. He can process, categorize, but not understand and empathize. Not really, anyways. It's all ones and zeroes. "You're sending an… android?"

It's clear that his unconventional aesthetics had thrown her, and he opens his mouth to respond, but realizes he wasn't programmed for this. He has nothing to say. He doesn't know what to say. As the agent speaks, his lips close, jaw set tight-

"Ma'am, we need to go." The masked agent insists, pulling her towards the elevator.

"You can't— why aren't you sending a real person-!" She chokes out, struggling as if she wants to fight him. The woman's voice fades out as Hank realizes that he did not remember to scan her for information during the brief encounter. The probability of this turning into a gunfight slips from 14% to 17%. So long as he completes his objective, there should be no issue.

"Don't let that thing near him!" The woman's voice grows quieter as he walks further towards his objective, muffled as the elevator doors close; "Keep that thing away from my son!"

The apartment is a mess, but the disorder barely bothers Hank. He was made for this sort of messy situation—stepping easily over overturned furniture, cataloging the possibilities as he moves to where he knows his objective awaits him. The comments that pass him from the humans of the swat team don't escape him, but they don't affect him. He understands that they don't like him—he's a threat to their job, but he's the best chance that little boy has to survive this.

"Captain Allen." He says, making his presence known as he steps up behind the man. Hank doesn't quite tower over him, but it's enough of a difference in height that the captain grimaces before going back to his screens. "My name is Hank. I'm the android sent by CyberLife."

"It's firing at everything that moves." The captain shoots back, without so much as a greeting in return. Hank doesn't mind. He isn't here to make friends; he's here to prove he was worth the money he took to develop. In the back of his processors, the thought pops up—he's here to save the child. To keep people from getting hurt. "It already shot down two of my men…" His voice has venom, with every time he says 'it', it's like he's spitting out the word.

"We could easily get it, but it's standing at the edge of the balcony." The man finally turns to look at him, the distaste clear on his face even though he knows Hank was sent here to help. "If it falls," He continues, darkly; "He falls."

Clearly, the first course of action would be the deactivation code. They're not idiots, Hank can tell by the file on Allen in the corner of his vision; Allen might not like Hank, but he's a good officer, a smart commander. Hank doesn't bother to ask about the code. The android is still out there, and it's broken. It needs to be treated carefully, talked off the ledge. Literally.

"Has the android gone through an emotional shock recently?" Is the question he lands on; a traumatic experience can often trigger a malfunction-

"Listen—" Allen says, whipping around to face Hank and clearly not enjoying the fact that he must look up to meet emotionless blue eyes. "Saving that kid is all that matters." A step forward, though it only causes the captain to crane his neck more—Hank isn't intimidated. "So either you deal with this fucking android now, or I'll take care of it."

Hank may not be programmed to talk back, but god damn if he doesn't want to. He gave the team the benefit of the doubt, he assumes they were smart enough to do the most simple of tasks but it appears the same courtesy isn't being extended to him; the most advanced model CyberLife had designed to date. That was fine. He'll just do what he came for and diffuse the situation, just like these numbskulls couldn't manage to. The probability of success takes a two point dive;

**Probability of Success: 48%**  
**Related Objective: Understand What Happened.**  
**Primary Objective Updated: Save Hostage at All Costs**

Momentarily, Hank wonders what all these people have been doing here for so long, because it seems that none of them have done anything but stand around uselessly with their guns. No wonder they needed an android to negotiate. He scans over family photos on bookshelves; the son's name is Cole. There's a case for a gun on the floor—empty;

**GLOCK 22 Gen4, standard. .40 caliber. Overall length: 7.95 in / Barrel: 4.49 in.**

The bullets are unpacked next to the case, a full clip's worth taken. Fifteen bullets. Two men have been shot; Hank surmises that there are at least thirteen bullet's left in the father's gun which the deviant had taken. The more he knew, the more likely this would work out favorably.

**Probability of Success: 51%**

Long, decisive strides take him to Cole's room, decked out in sports posters and trophies for soccer—behind him, he can hear a conversation between two agents;

"That bastard's gonna jump."

"Fuck, man. I have the same model at home."

The fear in the room is nearly palpable, the chemical composition of the air shifting with the influx of chemicals. Hank doesn't have enough information, yet—there's still time. A pair of headphones lie on the floor of the boy's room, still softly playing music; perhaps he was unaware of the gunshots when they had occurred. The headphones are connected to a tablet, the video queued up was of the boy and the android.

"This is John, the coolest android in the world! Say hi, John!" Cole proclaims from the screen, all glittering green eyes and dazzling, innocent smile. The android—John, smiles pleasantly into the camera of the device.

"Hello!" John says brightly, with a wave.

"You're my bestie!" The child laughs, and the video shakes slightly; "We'll be together forever!"

**Probability of Success: 61%**

Well that was a significant leap, though not quite enough of one for Hank to exit the scene entirely to begin the negotiation. In the living room, the father lay dead—slumped over the shattered glass coffee table. Shot three times—Hank revises his math; ten bullets left, then, assuming the officers shot were only shot once, with a machine's deadly precision. Shapes in his mind's eye flicker over reality, the father had been taken by surprise, attention focused on the tablet in his hand, now half-broken on the floor.

A simple swipe is all it takes to unlock the device;

"Your order for an AP700 android has been registered." Reads out a robotic voice; and there it was, the trigger. John was going to be replaced. "CyberLife thanks you for your purchase." Before he can update the percentage there's two more gunshots from outside.

An officer falls and a member of the team drags him away from the windows, shouting for the rest of the squad to do the same. Eight bullets. There's a DPD officer on the ground, a first responder, probably—his skin is pale, the wood below him is stained with blood. Hank scans.

**Oscar Deckart**  
**Deceased / Detroit Police Department Officer**  
**Estimated time of death: 8:03 PM**

A single bullet wound in the chest—seven bullets. Gunshot residue on his hand, so he must have fired back. Perhaps John is injured. The officer's gun isn't near him; a simple reconstruction places it under the dining room table.

Androids are not allowed to wield firearms, but no one is watching programming does not intervene as he picks up the sidearm, slipping it, safety on into the back of his waistband—beneath the tailored suit coat, where it can't be seen.

**Probability of Success: 72%**

Still not high enough.

He makes his way into the kitchen, the sleek, modern appliances spotless besides one pot left on the hot stove, boiling over and spilling its contents onto the ceramic until the mixture burned and congealed into a foul-smelling black tar. A simple touch cools the surface, a small action which seems of little importance, but it wouldn't do any of them good if the fire department had to be called on top of the SWAT team which was already here.

The screen on the fridge is set to the news, muted, Hank doesn't turn it on—there's a SWAT officer in the pool, leaking blood into the chlorinated water. Six bullets.

**Probability of Success: 75%**

"Go away!" Comes a strangled voice from the terrace, too emotional and human to be coming from a machine, and yet—"All of you go away—or I'll jump!" It threatens—he threatens. John threatens.

"What are we waiting for?" An officer by the doorway complains, back flush to the thirium-stained wall; "We should take down this asshole."

"I've got a clear shot." The man next to him agrees, expression unreadable past his riot helmet.

Hank ignores them skillfully, dropping to one knee by a splash of the blue substance which was seeping into the expensive faux-wood that places like this often used. Fingers dip into the substance, bringing it to his lips to analyze. Model PL600 – Serial number 369 911 047. Beside the mess, a child's shoe, with blood on the very edge of the sole; the hostage might be wounded.

The android with him unquestionably is.

**Probability of Success: 83%**

Good enough. Hank straightens himself, not sparing a glance for the agents hidden behind the wall; he pushes past the sheer curtains and the metal fastenings scream against the rod. He's barely to the terrace when the deviant shoots again, clipping him in the shoulder. Blue blood splatters on the thin fabric behind him, the force of the bullet pushing him slightly to the side, but he rights himself easily and keeps moving.

Five bullets.

"Stay back!" The deviant, John, warns, gun aimed shakily at Hank who stands before the pair without expression or fear. "Come any closer and I jump!" The boy's face is streaked with snot and tears, his words frantic and unintelligible as he sobs and begs, lifted from the ground and held in place by one of the android's arms.

The gun turns to point Cole, who only cries harder. Hank can see the snipers assembling on the rooftops of other buildings, he needs to keep the focus on him,

"Hi, John." He calls out, voice low and gruff but loud enough to be heard over the whipping of air from the helicopter blades.

"How…" John breathes, skittering farther towards the edge—the balls of his feet are all that remain on the edge of the roof, a balancing act which would make any human's stomach tie into knots.

"My name is Hank."

"How do you know my name?" John demands, twitching as if he isn't sure which direction to point the gun. Hank wants the gun on him, away from the child, but John doesn't see him as enough of a threat, yet.

"I know a lot of things about you, John." Hank says calmly, taking a single, measured step farther onto the roof. "I'm here to help." He says, simply, not specifying who exactly it is that he is here to help. A helicopter approaches, coming too close for comfort—lounge chairs scrape across the deck and the wind whipping around him frees a silver strand from futile rubber prison, the synthetic grey dancing around the top of his vision.

**Probability of Success: 68%**

Shit. Okay. So that sucked. Hank continues to move forward, spying another officer gunned down to his left. Two shots to the chest; three bullets left in John's gun. By the weight of the piece tucked into his jeans, there are at least as many left in his own.

"I don't want to hurt you." Hank offers, which is almost funny because he isn't programmed to want, but he also isn't programmed for humor. "I just want to talk." He holds his hands out, to show he's unarmed, palms flat and outstretched. The smile he offers is robotic, tense, so to counteract his lack of humanity, here, he drops a bit of the formality in his speech. "Find a solution."

"Talk?" John scoffs, shifting uncomfortably with every step Hank takes towards him; "I don't want to talk!" The gun is still trained on Cole, who's probably going to need years of therapy.

**Probability of Success: 71%**

"It's too late for that, now." John's voice shakes with the echoes of regret and fear, "It's too late…" Now that Hank's closer, he can get a better look at the officer on the ground—two shots to the chest, but nonlethal, he's still breathing, but he won't be for long.

"He's losing blood." Hank informs John, giving the deviant an impartial glare. "If we don't get him to a hospital, he's going to die."

"All humans die eventually." He doesn't care, and why should he—humans treat androids as replaceable and suddenly John's feeling it all, LED spinning red, red, red. "What does it matter if this one dies now?"

"I suppose it doesn't." Hank agrees, because saving the life on one officer isn't his mission. He's here to save Cole. Another step, and he's barely ten feet away. The gun turns on him—finally.

"Are you armed?" John demands, again, as if Hank is afraid of being shot. He isn't, he scoffs.

"Only seems fair." Hank's gun isn't out, though. If he reached for it, John could easily shoot him first. "I won't use mine if you don't use yours."

"But—"

"Oh, come on." Hank hits him with a look that stems from an expression pathway labeled 'disapproving father', "What am I going to do? Shoot you and let you both fall? I told you." He puts on the accompanying tone of voice. "I just want to talk."

**Probability of Success: 83%**

"No sudden moves, or I'll shoot!" Another threat—this was getting a bit passé.

"Gotcha, hotshot." Hank sounds almost annoyed, almost human, and it's enough for John to pause, confused. "So let's get this straight; they ordered a new android, you thought they were going to replace you… and you got upset."

"I thought I was part of the family." John sounds devastated, emotional enough that the hand with the gun drops to his side, aiming at the ground instead of at Hank, who continues his slow but steady approach. "I thought I mattered… But I was just a toy to them!" The gun's up, on Cole again, and closer, this time. "Something to throw away when you're done with—"

"I know you and Cole there were real close." He leans to the side as he steps closer, making his approach seem softer—less of a head-on assault. His hands are still extended to show that they're empty. "You think he betrayed you, but he didn't, John." The boy sniffles, all out of tears but still shaking, scared into a place of silence. "He didn't do anything wrong."

"He lied to me!" The barrel of the gun jams against the boy's forehead, twisting in his dirty blond hair. "I thought he loved me, but I—I was wrong." John's hands are shaking—"He's just like all the other humans…"

"John, no…" Cole sobs, wriggling in the android's grip. Things look grim, but Hank is so close, he knows what to say. He was made for this.

**Probability of Success: 99%**

The helicopters get closer again, closing in on the rooftop—John waves the gun wildly, as if he's thinking of shooting one of them, not that it would do much good. He groans in agony and covers his ear with the hand holding the gun.

"I can't stand that noise anymore!" He yells, though his teeth; "Make them go away!"

"You think they'll listen to me?" Hank knows that if he motioned for it, they would. Well, they might. It wasn't as if CyberLife had jurisdiction, here—they weren't the enforcers of the law and this was a test run, he was a prototype.

"Maybe you're right." He says, arms going from vulnerable to crossed against his chest. "Maybe these humans don't care about us." He's choosing his language quickly, carefully—_us_. We're the same, you and me. I understand you. All these statements unsaid but clearly understood. "But you cared about them." Another step forward, from here, Hank can see John's LED indicator flickering yellow. "You were the one who took care of Cole. Taught him. Played with him. Helped him."

"What are you saying…?" John interjects, confused—Hank cuts him off.

"When no one else was there for him, you always were." Hank sounds stern, not quite angry, but forceful. Strong. "Do you truly believe he would willingly let his parents get rid of you? That someone else could replace you?"

"I—" Red has become yellow consistently, the light swirling as John works past the emotions to try and process what he's being told. Hank's only a couple feet away from the pair, now—close enough to catch the boy's swollen, red eyes with his own—calm and deep like the sea.

"You didn't know, did you, Cole?" Hank asks, voice coming out softer, now that he didn't have to speak as loud to be heard. The kid shakes his head, and Hank repeats the answer aloud. "He didn't know." Another question, to the boy, as he ignored the deviant for his answers. "You didn't want them to replace John, did you, Cole?"

"No…" The boy chokes out a sob, dry and broken because he's been crying for an hour now and there's nothing left. "Together forever…"

"Let him go, John." Hank turns his attention to the android. "Let Cole go, give me your gun, and let's walk out of here and talk."

**Probability of Success: 100%**

The boy's feet meet the ground and he runs towards the only humanoid shape which doesn't have a gun out—Hank. This was not part of the plan. The child latches on to the dark denim of Hank's pant leg. A large hand, designed to seem rough and human finds tiny shoulder, feeling the vibration of the tiny body feeling more panic than anything that young ever should.

"I—I'm so sorry…" John breathes, his words too quiet to be heard, but Hank's reading his lips. Hank nods to the ground.

"Put the gun down, John." He instructs calmly, and John looks at the metal device in his hand with dark eyes. It looks, for a moment, like he's ready to comply, but instead the light on his temple flashes red and he says it again.

"I'm so sorry." John raises the gun and Hank's processors flick through every possible scenario—no matter what happens, he just keeps coming back to his prime objective. The boy must be kept safe. Hank drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around Cole—he expects the next three bullets in his back, with Cole's face safely tucked into his shoulder, but there's only the sound of one.

John topples from the edge of the building, eyes lifeless as the bullet passes through his head, the gun held loosely in his locked hand.

Thirium spills down from the hole made in his chin and he hits the pavement sixty floors down with a cracking that Hank is sure no one can feel as viscerally as he can. At least he'd kept the boy from seeing it—even if that had not been something which he'd been concerned with before this moment. It takes two agents to extract the child—the hostage—from where he'd hidden himself in Hank's coat.

Hank removes the gun from his waistband, separating it from its clip and leaving the two pieces on the dining room table before he leaves.

_Two bullets._

**Mission Complete.**


	2. FILE 002 Partners

FILE 002 / Partners

11.05.2038 PM 11:21:05

Connor Moore had not risen to the rank of Lieutenant at the ripe age of thirty-eight by loafing around and neglecting his work. He had made lieutenant by working hard, and, well; by being in the right place at the right time. That was a skill of his, a gift—being where the action was when it went down. It was one of those things about him that other people envied that he never really enjoyed, himself. Like his eidetic memory.

The ability to recall everything was useful, for a police detective. Perhaps it was part of the reason he had climbed the ranks so quickly; even the smallest pieces of information stayed lodged firmly in his head. Every gift has a downside, though. Marriages didn't last when one could quantifiably shut down near every argument by providing the other participant with exactly what they had said before, word-for-word. Maybe he should have gone into law, instead.

"Lieutenant." A voice, deep and unfamiliar, rouses him from his thoughts.

Someone new, because that made sense, and it had to be; most of the department knew better than to bother Connor this late at night when he's up against the brick of the building with a cigarette between his lips.

"My name is Hank, I'm the android sent by CyberLife." The voice goes on, and because Connor doesn't want to give it the satisfaction of ruining his smoke break with things like eye contact and introductions, he doesn't look to see the source. Wait—CyberLife? That's not normal. Connor looks up.

"I'm sorry, you're—you're fucking what?"

"That's not my programmed intent, lieutenant."

Oh, good. This one comes with a sense of humor. And—a lot of other things, by the look of it. Connor didn't consider himself incredibly hip on the android scene anymore, but this one was… unique. He appeared older, not fresh and wrinkle-free like the rest of the cookie-cutter machines which milled about the station and just about everywhere else, these days.

"Clearly." Usually it's frowned upon to blow smoke directly into the face of someone who's attempting to talk to you, but Connor isn't known for being nice.

He's known for being precise. He's cold but he's good at what he does, so what does it matter if he exhales nicotine straight into the bot's face? It's not like it needs to breathe, anyways. He hates how it's looking at him, analytically, the way she used to.

Lt. Connor Moore  
Born: 08.25.1996 / Detroit Police Department Lieutenant (2019- )  
Personal History: Richard Moore (Brother \\\ DPD Detective), Ciaran Moore (Brother \\\ Detroit General Hospital), [REDACTED] (Ex-Wife \\\ [REDACTED])

A redacted file, again. Hank pushes, but it doesn't budge like last time. The information isn't just there, it's not in the system at all. Whoever she is, her name is blacked out on all the divorce papers he can access. No trace of file tampering, no trails deeper in to find full reports and old pictures.

There's nothing. It's… vexing. Hank doesn't like not knowing.

He doesn't l̵̖̮͔̦̱̺̦̰̰̩̑͌̒͌̽̅ͅi̸̲̙̖̜͌̓̄͒̀̚k̴̤̙̺̰̲̈́̐̈̈́͒̓͝e̷͕̫͔͖̲̿̾͐̽̐͌͜-

[ERROR]

Hank isn't made to like anything. He's not built to experience frustration or anger or any other sort of feeling. A quick diagnostic isolates the corrupted section of code, sending it off to quarantine for when he's got time to untangle it and piece together what went wrong.

"Hey," Connor's reaching up, fingers snapping in Hank's face. A vain attempt to get the android's attention; "Plastic douchebag." Because he doesn't particularly enjoy being ignored, and he's not going to call the thing Hank. "Did you just scan me?"

"Those things aren't good for you." Technically he's supposed to be following orders from the lieutenant, and he's avoiding a question. That's not compliance in the least, but the probability of this conversation going well hinges on him being able to avoid the fact he was just prying into the man's personal files.

Files with blacked out names and holes in his history. Files which caused his code to fizzle and twist around itself until it was mangled enough for his LED to spin red for less than a second.

"So you're a nanny-bot." The cigarette in Connor's fingers is spent, but if he drops it now it'll look like he's listening to what he's being told, and he doesn't care.

That's not right, actually—he doesn't care what this hunk of scrap tells him, but he does care about the way he's perceived. Connor isn't a pushover. He does what he wants, what he believes is right, regardless of what he's told.

"My model is designed to assist investigators in cases which may involve a malfunctioning android." Hank supplies, helpfully.

God, he's got one of those condescending smiles and eyes like he knows how it looks. Connor might not survive this.

"So you're a nanny-bot." Connor repeats, a smile playing on his lips. It might be futile to try and get a rise out of a hunk of metal but god damn if he isn't going to try.

"What I am, lieutenant, is your partner." And there's something about the tone that snaps something deep down in the lieutenant and he's got this burning urge to punch the damn thing right in its dumb, handsome face.

"I don't do partners." Connor spits, like venom, perfectly aware this isn't a situation that gives him a choice—even more aware that there's a reason Amanda didn't tell him about this. "You're mistaken."

"I'm not, and we have a case."

"I'm driving." Connor concedes, bitterly, finally dropping the remains of his smoke on the pavement, grinding it to dust under the thin soles of worn suit-shoes.

11.05.2038 PM 11:56:34

The house they come up upon can barely be considered such. It's a shithole, in a few words. The wood is dark and rotten, paint peeling from the damp paneling and the roof looks near about to cave in at any second. Also, apparently, people don't have anything better to do in the middle of night, because there's a crowd of civilians and reporters held back by the flickering light blue tape announcing that this was, in fact, a crime scene. Attention turns to the pair as Connor slams his car door—not that his old beater of a car deserves to be on the receiving side of his anger, but… It's not like he can place that anywhere else, right now.

"Stay out of my way." Connor doesn't bother to tell Hank to stay back, because he's got this feeling that even if he issued a direct command, it would be ignored.

Just another reminder of why he hated androids; it was like certain ones were specifically programmed not to listen to him. At least when humans didn't listen, he could chalk it up to differences in personality; people left him alone when he made a point to be hard to get along with—androids were… not made for that kind of intricacy.

"I'll do my best, lieutenant." Hank replies, unconvincing.

Connor somehow feels like a teenager again, with a teacher watching over his shoulder to make sure he's paying attention even though he doesn't need to. He's been solving crimes and protecting the public since he made it through the academy—it's been years. And, what? CyberLife can just churn out some fancy new prototype who can sort out the details of human motivation when it's never seen any of this before? Of course they can. Of course they would. Fucking androids.

He doesn't even hear the questions that Channel 16 is throwing at him, tossing back noncommittal words like 'no comment' and 'wait for the official statement' as he wades through the crowd. They pass through the particle tape, and the officers don't even question what's going on. Which is great, it's awesome. Connor is super stoked that the entire department got to know about his new mandatory android partner before he did. Really, it's super fun and conducive to a positive work environment.

Amanda's so getting a piece of his mind when this case is over.

The closer they get to the front door, the stronger the smell gets—blood, rot, rain, and the barest tinge of thirium, a subtle chemical touch to Connor and a strong splash to Hank's synthetic senses. He barely has to look around the place to be able to tell what happened here, the whole house is in disrepair, and what isn't naturally falling apart seems to have been torn to shreds in a struggle. The victim, an older, heavyset man, is slumped against the wall. He's been here awhile, from the growth of maggots in the stab wounds littering his pallid torso.

"Shit, how many stab wounds is that?" Connor breathes, too quietly for most people to hear over the buzz of energy within the room. Hank isn't most people, he's got senses sharper than any human, better than his mechanical predecessors, and as much as he knows that was rhetorical, he can't resist the urge;

"Enough." Hank responds ominously, with a shrug. Connor isn't sure whether he should be creeped out or amused.

"A crime of passion, then." The lieutenant waves over a responding officer, who begins to brief him on what they've uncovered so far. Hank, as instructed, stays out of his way—approaching the wall and the victim to see what more he can find. On the wall, three words, eerie in their bloody painted precision.

I AM ALIVE

Cyberlife Sans.

The man looks worse, up close. The smells all translate to Hank as data, chemical compositions and code. It must be awful for the humans—even Connor, a seasoned veteran of disgusting crime scenes, is walking around with the sleeve of his grey cardigan covering his nose and mouth.

Carlos Ortiz  
Height: 5'06" / Weight: 286.6 lbs.  
Born: 04.21.1989 – deceased / Unemployed  
Criminal Record: theft, aggravated assault  
Estimated time of death: approx. 19 days ago, 11:30 PM

"Kitchen knife over there, probably the murder weapon." The responding officer says, nearly concluded with his briefing. "Windows are all boarded up, front door was locked when we got here—killer probably went out the back way."

"What about his android?" Connor asks, his usual contempt masked as he kneels by the knife, "What do we know about it?"

"Not much." Replies the officer. "The neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn't here when we arrived." There's the soft sound of something small and metal hitting the floor, but the noise is just below perception enough to where Hank is the only one who hears it.

"I gotta get some air," The officer is out the door by the time he says; "Make yourself at home. I'll be outside if you need me."

Primary Objective: Understand What Happened  
Secondary Objective: Review Evidence  
Secondary Objective: Locate Mr. Ortiz's Android  
Related Objective: Stay out of Lt. Moore's Way

A speedy scan of the room tells Hank three things: One, the android in Ortiz's possession was likely not a household model—the place was filthy, and it had been since before the man died. Two, the killer was someone who Ortiz knew, because they must have been let in—all signs of struggle are farther into the house and not particularly near the doors. Three, and this one was a hunch, a gut feeling after the second observation—even though Hank didn't have a gut to feel from—the killer was his android. A deviant, most likely, and still dangerous to humans.

There's a packet of dark red crystals on the table between the mounds of empty cans, Hank kneels to inspect it:

RED ICE \\\ Illegal substance used by humans for recreation  
Composition: Acetone, Lithium, Thirium, Toluene, & Hydrochloric acid

Sure, it would produce an unprecedented high, but none of those chemicals were designed to do anything but hurt the human body. A message pops up in the corner of his vision—a correlation with Lt. Moore's file; the very case which had made the man's career noteworthy was the dissolution of a red ice manufacturing ring right here in Detroit.

"Red ice on the table." Hank calls over to him, in some sort of vain attempt to be helpful. Animosity would not be helpful to his mission, and his social programming dictates that humans find helpfulness endearing. "Trace amounts on the body, as well."

"Could tell he was a lowlife just by looking around." Connor snaps, having removed his sleeve from his face to put on sterile gloves. He's got the knife in his hands, gingerly touching only the edges. "Open your mouth again when you have something useful to say." There's a beat before the lieutenant adds, politely; "…Please."

"Understood."

"What did I just say?" He sounds exasperated—he likes to do his work in peace; relatively. The buzzing around of other officers and crime scene techs was one thing, but a robot milling about and telling him useless facts was not high on his list of things he enjoyed. "No prints on the weapon." He doesn't know why he's mentioning it—maybe someone will write it down. Maybe his new partner works like a smartphone, takes… fuckin' voice memos, he doesn't know. "Killer wore gloves, then?"

"Androids are not designed with fingerprints." Hank offers, but Connor already knows that—he just hadn't quite considered the possibility, just yet. It makes sense, though, with the evidence they're seen so far. What else could write so neatly on the wall ?

"So- did they also design you specifically to sound like a serial killer, or …" Connor shakes his head and turns to a tech, motioning to the words on the wall with a jerk of his thumb. "That in the victim's blood?"

"I'd say so." The tech replies, looking up from her clipboard. "We're taking samples for analysis."

"It is." Hank cuts in, to which Connor gives him another look which very eloquently questions how he knows this, wordlessly. "I could test it now, if you wanted."

"Knock yourself out."

"I'd prefer not to," Hank says, approaching the wall once more; "But I'll go ahead and analyze a sample."

"Your android's got an attitude." The tech teases, which from Connor's reputation she should know better. The glare she receives shuts her up quickly, and suddenly the clipboard in her gloved hands is very interesting.

"Hold on, what the fuck—" Connor was so preoccupied by the sass from the tech (her name was Chris, and she was a tolerable person, usually) that he hadn't noticed Hank scraping his fingertips against the dried substance and bringing it to his lips. "What the fuck did you just do."

"I'm analyzing the blood."

"With your—with your mouth?" Of course. Of fucking course CyberLife put the walking crime lab in its mouth. Of course they did.

Somehow, Connor feels like it would have been more comfortable for Hank to have opened a body panel and done it in his torso with hilariously tiny test tubes and pipettes. This way he just seemed too human. Licking evidence. Fuck. That shouldn't make his stomach churn more than the dead body crawling with maggots beneath them, and yet somehow it does.

"I am becoming unsure how you made it past the rank of detective with your current observational skills."

"Does CyberLife take customer complaints, or like—reviews or something? Zero out of five stars. Would not tolerate again."

Hank is silent as he processes the information he just took in orally, blood type, red ice—the sample's age. It all matches up to what he's gathered about the victim from the scene and the medical records in his head.

Sample: 85% Match – test secondary sample directly from body for 100% match.

Over fifty is good enough, Hank is concerned that testing a second sample from an actively decomposing corpse might hurt his standing with the lieutenant—a standing which was barely that. It was on shaky legs, like a newborn deer, at the very least.

"The words on the wall are written in Carlos Ortiz's blood, the font is CyberLife Sans."

"One out of five stars." Connor amends, slowly, arms crossed and brown eyes pulled into a measured squint. "You programmed to put together a theory or just put evidence in your mouth?"

"Give me five minutes and I'll let you know."

"You hear this shit, Mike?"

Connor could easily figure out this crime scene on his own, it's what he does. Some people were born with art in them, poetry or music or steady hands that painted pretty pictures, but Connor… He was analytical, smart, he understands how humans work. Maybe CyberLife had finally created a close enough facsimile of man that even police investigators would be rendered useless.

While Connor was reminiscing about the good ol' days (you know, the days before androids were as common in the city as pigeons) Hank had located the back door. Unable to contain his curiosity, the lieutenant follows, nearly leaning in the door frame before catching himself and choosing not to ruin the cashmere of his clothes. Rain pounds the ground outside, turning dirt to mud and bending the few straggling remains of grass into the mess.

The only signs of life out here are a single pair of boot prints pressed into the soggy terrain.

SHOE PRINT  
Model KS2 DPD – size 10'  
60 minutes ago

"Door was locked from the inside." Connor provides, helpfully, in case Hank hadn't been listening to the briefing. Which he hadn't been, not totally, but the audio was still recorded in his memory logs. "I still think the killer must have gone out this way."

"There are no footprints other than officer Collins' size ten shoes." Hank says, matter-of-fact, reaching for the elastic band on his wrist to tie his hair up.

It's a strange design element, Connor muses; who gives an investigative android long hair that's likely to get in the way? He knows the answer to that. He doesn't want to think about it. He'd rather think about the case.

"So what? This happened weeks ago. Footprints fade."

"Not in this type of soil." Hank finally looks over to Connor, expression flat and passive. "No one's been out here for a long time."

"Fine, okay. Your five minutes is up." And so is this circus, hopefully. Hank—the android—Connor corrects himself mentally. The damn thing looks too human, science has gone too far. Anyways, he'll say something preposterous and then he'll get sent back to CyberLife and Connor won't have to deal with this anymore.

Hank doesn't speak, though, he doesn't say anything ridiculous because he says nothing at all—walking back into the house with hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the floor. He's looking at something—blue blood faded into the worn wood, but Connor doesn't know that. He can't see that, because he's got human eyes so he's left to wonder what in the world Hank is doing.

The thirium stops abruptly, in the middle of the hallway, which would be weird if there wasn't a hatch to the attic directly above their heads and an imprint of dirt on the wall beside them.

"Hey. Space cadet." Connor's snapping in his face again, and Hank gives him a look—one of those disappointed ones from the pathway he'd been futzing with earlier. It has the intended effect, as the snapping ceases. "What's your malfunction?"

"Carlos Ortiz was killed by his android, which is currently in the attic." Not his malfunction, but his theory, which was also requested.

"Shit. Okay." Connor looks around, trying to evaluate how exactly Hank could have come to that conclusion. "You're serious?"

"I have no pending errors at the moment." Hank nods, and Connor waves over another officer.

"Hey, Ben- boost me up there, would you?"

"I'm far better suited for that, lieutenant."

Before Connor can argue, the android is bent just barely downwards, hands out with fingers interlocked. It's clear what he expects Connor to do, here, but Hank clarifies anyways;

"Step on my shoulder," The height between the two of them should be more than enough to reach the panel which seals the upper level for the moment. "I won't drop you."

"See, I wasn't worried about it, but then you just had to go and say that, didn't you?" Connor grumbles, settling his foot on Hank's hands, hands on the man's—the thing's—shoulder before he steps up with the other foot. Had it been a person helping him, they would have moved slightly at the pressure, wavered when he set his weight on them, but Hank didn't. Not even a millimeter.

"Wonders of technology," he scoffs, pushing at the thin slab. It moves easily, and he only struggles a little when he pulls himself up. Hank follows, to his chagrin, slipping up behind him gracefully and without a sound. He can't help but think again that science has gone too far.

The attic is as much of a disaster as the rest of the house, though far less gross. There's no spent food containers, no stains, no putrid stench. It's dark, in the early morning light—or late night glow, depending on what sort of person you were. The moon shines through a single window near what was likely the front of the house, the shadows of sun-bleached and dust-covered knickknacks playing eerily against curtains and sheets strung up for a reason which Hank can't fathom.

He pushes past the lieutenant, unsure if the deviant is still unstable enough to attack. Not that Connor needs his protection, because the man's already produced his gun, from the sound of it; finger flat against the trigger guard and tapping lightly. It nearly feels like the situation on the roof as Hank moves forward through the mess with cautious steps, silent save for the occasional creaking of unsafe flooring.

There's a scratching sound as something near the corner of the room scrambles further into the corner—a wild animal, most would assume. Hank thinks that they might be sort of right, in a way. Now that they're close enough, Connor's got his flashlight on her, braced over the top of the gun in his hands. She's covered in blood, human blood—Carlos' blood. It coats her torn clothes, making the flimsy fabric brittle and scratchy. She's crying. Neither of the pair was aware that androids could cry.

Deviant Located.

"I was defending myself…" Her voice sounds wrong, tinny and broken, the LED on her forehead flashing red. "He was going to kill me this time, for real—I... I just know it." She looks up, pleading—and she's beautiful. The light plays off her plastic skin like she was painted by some old master. Of course she looks like that, she's designed to be a model for pleasure, or 'personal satisfaction' as the ads like to put it.

"He would make me cook and clean, but I'm not made for that, he'd—he would be so mad every time I got it wrong." Hank looks up her model number, ignoring the way the flashlight Connor is holding shakes slightly while she speaks.

WR200 \\\ discontinued TRACI  
Preliminary female sex partner design, no longer produced due to inferior software

"Your model isn't built to have the disk space for household protocols." Hank doesn't mean to say it out loud, but it just sort of comes out.

"Please don't take me in, please—" The android begs, wrapping her arms around herself. There's portions of skin missing, where her body is stripped down the heat-warped plastic beneath. Other places, there's what appear to be human-like scars, a cosmetic feature installed over her original coding, Hank assumes.

"You committed a felony," Hank sounds cold, robotic, and it throws Connor for a loop because he keeps fucking forgetting that this thing is just that—a thing. "Even if we did leave you here, your biocomponents will shut down soon." He stands straight, nearly as tall as the highest point and backlit by the moon. "Will you come willingly?"

"I don't want to die." She breathes, struggling to her feet—blonde hair falls into her face and Connor is struck somewhere deep by how she looks, like a memory long-forgotten even though he's incapable of forgetting. She looks lost, angry. He's silent, repeating over and over in his head that the two other forms up here with him are little more than overgrown microwaves.

Just because it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck doesn't mean it is one.

"Shut down here, alone, in his house." Hank says, pragmatically. "Or come and be reset. Forget the pain, let them take you apart." There's a pause—deviants are emotional, they don't function correctly. He makes what his social protocols inform him is an emotional appeal. "Come home."

There's silence for what feels like eons, and Connor's ready to open his mouth but Hank gets to it first.

"Will you come willingly?" He repeats, like ice.

"Yes."

Mission Complete.


End file.
